With Bated Breath
by Vulkodlak
Summary: And for all the many shades of anticipation, the Nation of Panem waits with bated breath, united in suspense, waiting for the most significant event of the year. For this. Welcome, dear Nation, to the 31st Annual Hunger Games! SYOT *OPEN* Seriously, it's wide open. Got like 19 slots left.
1. Chapter 1

The months leading up to the Games are utterly consumed by speculation.

In the Capital, television talk shows will be devoted to dissecting supposed patterns in Arena construction. Gamemakers will be dragged into studio after studio to read the same vague, scripted lines on the upcoming event.

Fans will argue endlessly, online and in person, over such scintillating topics as which designer will be assigned to which district, and which Gamemaker will have designed the next Arena.

Old favorites will be brought up. People will gush over Celeste Braus's gorgeous wastelands and scenic forests, while others will decry her infamous reluctance to use traditional methods to move the action along.

Piper Levaunte's raw brutality will be brought up in response. The One Day Game will be discussed at length, opinions divided clearly along age lines. As Piper herself had anticipated, one oft cited interview will attest. Opinions will be further divided and subdivided with the inclusion of that and other such tidbits of information, which, some will argue, is exactly the point of releasing such statements.

A select few will quietly discuss newcomer Abdias Grant and his hauntingly alien landscapes. He will not have been around long enough to incite much controversy, and these discussions will be brandied about as an example of how true fans should conduct themselves.

Approximately no one will discuss the ever expanding budget and the strains it puts on the lower class, most likely because the lower class is kept carefully out of sight. And Capitol citizens, much like infants, lack the mental capacity to believe in what they cannot see.

Scattered about the Districts one can find a much greater variety of reactions to the impending event.

Districts One and Two will share a general sense of excited anticipation of a rather more purposeful nature than that of the Capitol. Speculation will be rife, strategy discussed, and training amped up as the deadline draws nearer. Rivalries will form over who will be the first to volunteer. Unofficial rules will be set and promptly broken, along with several bones. Ever increasing numbers of children aged 12 through 18 will suffer mysterious accidents. Previous Victors will be praised openly. Failure and the consequences thereof will not be spoken of.

Districts Three and Four will be slightly more subdued than their neighbors. Discussions will be hushed, expressions somber, and training quiet and desperate. Victors will walk the streets, eyes dark and expressions weary. No one will dare approach them.

Districts Five through Twelve will pretend to ignore the Games for as long as they can. How long the charade lasts varies on a personal level, though many will go to great pains to preserve it. Victors and Failures alike are ignored. Tongues are held. Tears are not shed; at least, not where anyone could see them.

If there is anger, it is tucked carefully away beneath a layer of despair.

And for all the many shades of anticipation, the Nation of Panem waits with bated breath, united in its anticipation for the most significant event of the year.

For this.

Welcome, dear Nation, to the 31st Annual Hunger Games!

**AN: Form on my profile, but feel free to use whatever form you feel like. I don't much care. Also note that if you only give me a few words of personality that I am going to feel free to make whatever I want out of the character. And I am predisposed towards writing total dorks, so. And finally, do try to give me characters that make sense given their background and economic status. I will not be accepting anyone who knows how to use a weapon for inexplicable reasons. An acceptable reason for a D12 knowing how to fight is involvement in organized crime. A bit of hand to hand roughly worked out between friends because they know that there's a chance they could be Reaped. Etc. Don't give me someone who knows how to use a bow unless you can explain why. **


	2. District 10

**Dakota Torelli**

I wake to the feel of rough fur against my face and the smell of damp wool clinging to the back of my throat.

I can feel the dirt and dried sweat of yesterday's work encrusted on my skin. My hair is tangled and greasy and smells like the back end of a sheep. The taste isn't much better, I muse, spitting out a clump.

I stretch and aching muscles scream their complaints. Bruises bump against the bony asses of my many, many sleeping companions, and my pained yelps stir up their own groans of complaint.

The air is hot and so humid that I can practically feel myself boiling alive in my own sweat, nestled as I am in a furry cocoon of overgrown puppies. The sun shines unmercifully through the old kennel roof at the exact right angle to pierce my corneas the moment I open my eyes.

I could not be happier if I tried.

I carefully extract myself from my family's current crop of sheepdogs. My crop, I think with a shiver of intense satisfaction. These particular dogs were bred and raised by the one and only Dakota Torelli, with only minimal help from my parents. These lazy brutes are my first taste of adulthood responsibilities, my first ginger step towards coming of age, and I've basically nailed it. I mean, not to brag, but my pack is totally killer, like you don't even know.

Sure, they might look like totally unremarkable fluff balls, all curled up in a big adorable pile like that, but inside each and every one of these mutts beats the heart of a wolf!

Except, you know, they protect sheep instead of eat them. Of course they don't eat them. Duh. Don't take things so literally.

My wide grins cracked open a scab on my chin, but I don't even care because I feel absolutely great, and you know what? I deserve to. After the shit I've been through, I damn well deserve to be happy.

It's taken me a long time to get from where I was to where I am now. Though, if you ask anyone outside my family they'd have no idea...

Nope. Nope. Not gonna think about it. Not gonna let it ruin my mood.

Fuck facing your problems. I've spent two years being healthy and responsible. I can stand to be stupid for once.

In the spirit of stupidity, I decide to let my girls sleep in for once. I mean, what they heck, they've worked hard. A few extra Zs won't ruin them.

I creep my way across the old, heat warped floor, carefully avoiding the creaky boards with the ease of long practice, and exit through the broken window. The squeeze gets tighter every year, and I just barely squeak by, biting back a long string of curses.

The day is just as beautiful and hellishly hot as always, with not a single cloud to block that cruel bastard sun from turning me lobster red and peeling within a matter of minutes.

I've lost my hat somewhere, and my long black hair is like an itchy and slightly damp blanket hanging from my head.

Damn, this day just keeps getting better and better.

I tromp towards the big house as fast as the heat and my own groggy state allows for, finger combing my hair as I go. I pause for a second to fiddle with a particularly stubborn knot, only to realize just how empty the commune fields are.

I check the sun and estimate the time to be nearly 9:00 AM, which is like noon for farm people. This place should be bustling with activity at this hour.

"What... the hell?"

There are chickens squawking in the henhouse and cows screaming to be milked and no one is doing anything and my good mood is leaking out my ears.

I mean, I know these people and they would never leave work undone, something must have happened, oh god where are my parents, where is _Meredith_, Christ alive what the hell is going on- oh right, that was today.

Shit. Shit.

Today is going to be terrible.

**Antler Chez **

Reaping Day is about as much a holiday as a funeral is a vacation.

Sure school is out and work delayed, sure streamers are hung in gaudy clumps off every available splintering corner of Old Town, sure many end the night soaked in cheap booze, but no amount of government mandated merriment can disguise the stench of raw despair that permeates the district.

It's been thirty plus years since the Rebellion failed to overthrow a regime that has only gotten crueler with time.

It's been thirty plus years of ever increasing demands for meat and milk and eggs for fat Capitolites to gorge on, while people here starve to death surrounded by food.

Thirty years of hardship and no end in sight.

It's enough to make even the most chipper of men contemplate a noose.

And no one has ever accused me of being an optimist.

"Antman! Dude! Over here!"

Trust a girl like Jen to ruin a good sulk like that. I can feel my carefully crafted smirk melt into an idiot grin as I pirouette dramatically in the direction of her voice.

"What? Who said that? That sounded a lot like one Jenny Carter, but I don't see her, so it couldn't possibly have been her!"

"Pfft, like I haven't heard that before. You're not funny, dude."

I feign shock, and keep my eyes pointed firmly above the crowd. "Jen? Jen? Where are you?" I spin rapidly in place, craning my neck and shading my eyes.

"Fuck you, you butt!"

I gasp and throw my hand dramatically over my heart. "Surely such vulgarity could not have come from one of my best friends! It must be a tiny, tiny imposter!"

"This here? This is you beating a dead horse. Everyone is trying not to stare at you 'cause it's just about the saddest thing anyone has ever done. You're like a legless puppy trying desperately to fetch a ball, Ant. That's how pathetic you are."

"An impossibly, _inhumanely _tiny little imp-oof!"

I clutch my side and groan. Girl's got a punch like a horse's kick. Odd, considering her frail appearance. I guess protruding knuckle bones act sort of like brass knuckles in a pinch. Or maybe I'm just a wimp.

She draws herself up, all four foot eleven inches of skin wrapped bones and hair, and aims a glare that has no business being as threatening as it is at me.

I am forever a slave to my baser urges.

"Now now, Jen. Craning like that can't be good for your neck. Give me a second, I'll get on my knees. We can finally talk face to face!"

"You're about as funny as a dead ox, dude, and now I don't want to talk to you anymore. Go bug Harry." She turns and stalks off, the picture of wounded dignity.

"Bye bye, Jen! I'll be over later to eat all your food!"

She calmly extends her arm above her head and flips me the bird without looking back, before being swallowed by the crowd.

I chuckle fondly to myself as I turn towards the cordoned off M-16 zone. No matter what Jen says, being abnormally tall is often just as lame as being stupid short, but one of it's few advantages is my unparalleled ability to navigate crowds. Of course, my other superpower is being a midget magnet, so they kind of cancel each other out.

Lucky for me, Harry's superpower is always finding me and Jen no matter where we are. He pretty much ruined hide and seek for both of us.

I actually see him slipping through the crowd before he can materialize out of thin air and startle me, so, hooray for small victories.

Dude's like a cat. You only see him once you've already tripped over him and busted open your knee.

He sidles up to me and nods. I nod back and raise him a smirk. He ignores me and begins to speak quietly enough that I am forced to bend down a bit to hear him over the crowd.

"Come to my house after this. We have food. I won't have you bothering Jen again."

"Aww, but your food is all vegetarian crap. No offence, but I'm a man and I have needs. Meat based man needs. You wouldn't understand, you _herbivore_."

He looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow, blatantly measuring my boney, marble-pale butt against his own gloriously bronzed, muscular physique.

Ouch. Point taken.

"... sure, whatever. Free food is free food."

He quirks his lip in what passes for a smirk among stoics like him and opens his mouth to make some sort of comment, but is mercifully cut short by a dramatic fanfare signaling the start of the festivities.

I have never been happy to hear another repetition of the same speech I've been hearing since birth, and I am not about to start now. However, it would be a dirty lie to say I am not pleased with the opportunity to shush Harry as often and as obnoxiously as I can.

The speech is over all too soon, but I am able to console myself with the appearance of my absolute favorite person, Vidal Yvante.

Good old Vidal never fails to fail spectacularly, and this year is no exception.

He trots to center stage from wherever he's been lurking like a candy coated god to bestow upon us all the gift of his magnificent presence.

His hair is an absolute marvel of science, defying the laws of physics, chemistry, and good taste all in one fell swoop. His artfully arranged mass of bulging muscles and veins is highlighted by what can only be pure grape Kool Aid running through his veins, showing up black against the baby powder pale of his skin. His voice, oh glory of glories, rings out like a chorus of dead cows all releasing one final gaseous build up before being ground up in an industrial size meat grinder.

"Good moooooorning, District Ten! Are you ready to make your Nation proud?"

"That is the man I intend to marry." I whisper. Harry snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Are you ready to bring honor and glory to your beloved District or die trying?"

"Oh god, take me now!" I moan, earning more than a few odd looks.

"Then let us not waste a moment more!" He thrusts his arm into the girl's ball and rapidly pulls out, scattering bits of paper all over the floor. "I give you, your female competitor in the 31st Anuaaaal, Hunger Gaaaaaaaaaaaaames! I give you..." He pauses to scan the scrap of paper clutched in his meaty fist, "Dakota... Torr.. Torelli?" My future husband pauses awkwardly, glancing off stage, perhaps to check his pronunciation, before shouting the name once again.

"Come on down, Miiiiiiiiiss Torelli!"

Miss Torelli walks less than enthusiastically from what looks to be section F-15 to the stage, all while my darling heaps encouragements and congratulations on the poor little ragamuffin.

Girl looks like she sleeps in a barn. Her hair's a black nest with a white straw hat perched atop it like some oversized pigeon, and her sunburned face is streaked with what I hope is dirt.

But my baby, bless his little heart, doesn't even seem to notice her general veneer of grime as he hoists her bodily onto the stage and wraps her up in an incredibly awkward bear hug.

I pretend to swoon into Harry's arms. He promptly drops me.

Vidal, perfect, beautiful Vidal, still has Miss Torelli clutched to his bare, gleaming chest as he stomps over to the boy's ball.

God above, Vidal, don't ever change, you fabulous winner you.

"And this lovely young lady's male counterpart iiiiiiiis... Antler Chez! Would Miiiiister Chez _please _come on down and let us all applaud you!"

What.

What.

Burn in hell, Vidal.

**Dakota Torelli**

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck with a shit sandwich and a side of hell fucking fire on the side.

Fuck.

I am so fucking screwed.

_And _I smell like fucking baby powder and armpit.

FUCK!

Okay. Okay. Okay. Dammit, fuck! I have to get it together! If not for my own sake then for my parents. For Mere.

Shit.

I bury my head in my hands and press my palms against my eyes as hard as I can. The dull pain helps bring the world into focus.

The gaudy, musty smelling world that has sentenced me to die for the crime of being born in a certain place at a certain time.

_fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck**FUCK**_

I slam the heels of my palms into my forehead and breathe heavily through my nose.

I can't let myself cry. If I cry now I will never stop.

My throat constricts and my eyes burn, but I force myself to open both.

"*Sniffle* A wolf is a pack animal. A... a wolf would d-d-die for a member of its pack at a m-moments notice. A pack consists of a mated pair and their... their offspring. This family bond is the strongest bond in the animal kingdom. The strongest bond..."

My breath slows and calms with every sentence.

My family means the world to me, and I would gladly die to see them happy.

The... the commune is great and all, but. But of I win. If I win, I can buy us a nice lot with lots of room to roam, and, and a proper kennel, not just a rickety old barn. I can give us a little room to experiment, maybe even design a new breed, a breed as smart and strong and loyal as a wolf. If I win.

If.

If I win, I will live to argue with mom again about the proper way to handle a conflict.

If I win, I get to wake up at the crack of dawn to tend our flock. He's always at his funniest when it's the ass crack of dawn.

If I win, I can spend another day goofing off with Meredith. We can hide out by the watering hole together and swim for hours and lay by the side just kissing each other breathless till nightfall.

If I win, I live.

My hands are shaking when they let my parents into the room with me. I can't bear to look at them, to let my memory of them be tainted by pain and fear.

I examine every crack in the wallpaper, every faded velvet cushion, every tarnished gold statue to a soundtrack of muffled sobbing.

My father excuses himself long before our time is up, but not before hugging me so tight I think for a moment that he'll just pick me up and whisk me away from danger, like he's done so many times before, back when I was little and the dangers were mostly imaginary.

But I'm too old to be saved by my Daddy anymore.

When he shuts the door, my resolve breaks, and tears drip down my cheeks.

I swipe at them angrily, ashamed of my weakness. Ashamed to give my mother even one hint that I can not handle what is coming.

She stands, and I wince, suddenly afraid. What I am afraid of I do not know, but I am afraid of my own mother at this moment.

I almost laugh. What kind of fucking weirdo is scared of her own mother, especially at a time like this?

"Honey..." She says, voice steady and gentle. "We love you dearly and... and... do try to come back to us, okay? Please, just. Try your best. We love you no matter what happens."

I do laugh at that, just a little. It sounds a lot like a scream.

She pats me once on the shoulder and the flees the room. I don't hold it against her. How could I? I love her too much to want to see her suffer when I can do nothing. I get that from her.

Meredith is next.

Of course she is.

She wouldn't just let me go without saying goodbye.

I glance at the clock and moan. Not enough time, not enough time. Meredith needs to get here soon, or else I won't be able to kiss her all over and cry on her shoulder and tell her that she has nothing to worry about because I'm her Hound Dog and I won't even wince at the nickname, god, I swear I won't if you just _get her here in time, please._

She shows up with five minutes to spare. She hovers in the doorway for a second like she can't quite bring herself to share space with a dead woman, before squaring her shoulders and marching into the room like she's going to conquer it.

Like she's going to carve us out a little slice of reality to hide out in until Panem is dust and the Hunger Games are a footnote in someone's history textbook.

Ha. Like that'd ever happen.

She presses something wrapped in brown paper into my palm and sits by my side. I bite my lip and place the package against my thigh.

We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. There's too much to say, too much to do. There's nowhere to start and no end that will be satisfactory. I just. Lean on her shoulder. Take comfort in her warm, solid presence. Pretend that I have a snowball's chance in hell to make it back.

When the Peacekeeper comes, it's like my heart is being ripped out of my chest.

I fiddle with Mere's package to keep from watching her leave.

There's a pendant inside. An ugly little oval of fake gold and chipped black plastic, portraying a silhouetted wolf's head, howling up at the moon.

It's just about the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

**Antler Chez**

The bonds of familial love only go so far.

Ideally, your family loves and cares for you passionately and unconditionally, but, well. This is not an ideal world.

Still, one can't help but feel a bit disappointed when one has three older, wiser, stronger brothers capable of taking one's place in a televised death match, who see fit to just leave me to my fate, like someone like me has even the slightest chance of coming back alive.

I'll freely admit to being a selfish bastard.

I really, _really _don't want to die.

So, I have decided, I will not.

The train is a spectacularly beautiful machine, all graceful arches and gleaming metal, hovering above the tracks through some strange process someone like me can't even begin to understand. It looks like a toy next to the hulking grey masses of our stations usual wheeled meat lockers, but Vidal assures me and Miss Torelli that it can travel at speeds of over 200 mph and withstand the force of something something, science talk.

I crane my neck and peer through the stone pillars of the station loading bay, hoping against hope to catch one final glimpse of my Auntie Kat's butcher shop. Of home.

I don't see it of course. It's so damn close I can practically smell the congealed blood, but like hell anything in my life can go my way.

"Come now, good fellows! Your destiny awaits in the Capitol!" Vidal beams and booms and Christ this guy is a cartoon.

I dodge an enthusiastic pat on the back and stumble up tiny, impossibly delicate looking stairs and into fucking Candyland.

Everything looks like it's made of spun sugar and frosting, all impossibly intricate designs and gaudy colors, so bright it makes my eyes hurt.

Miss Torelli looks sick, and I can't blame her, not with my own face trying to curl up unto itself to escape this offensive place.

Vidal hops aboard, our mentor, a thickly muscled woman of about forty, following in a much more subdued manner.

She introduces herself as "Mab", in a gruff and greatly uninterested tone, before disappearing into what I can only presume to be her room.

"Well, she's a charmer." I grumble.

Vidal gives me a sheepish look.

"Oh, Mab is a lovely woman, really she is. It's just. Well. She just doesn't have much faith in her District, I suppose. It's not her fault, I mean." He looks crestfallen for a moment. "We've lost so many lovely young competitors in our years together. And she's a sensitive woman, no matter how gruff and uncouth she comes off. Each loss hits her hard, you know? Poor girl. I keep telling her that she should just let someone else take over her duties, but... OH!" He straightens his spine and his expression shifts to one of exaggerated alarm. "I didn't mean to give you a bad impression of her capabilities as a Mentor! Do not get me wrong, she is absolutely brilliant and will do her best to guide you safely through your trials! I only meant to imply that the mental strain of the job might be hurting her personally. Not professionally! She's great, you'll love her, really!"

I'm sure there are about ten million jokes to be made about that pile of word vomit, but for the life of me I can't think of any.

"Well, anyways, I'm sure you're all tired and hungry from your very busy day, so I'll go see if I can get the chefs to hurry up a bit and the both of you can take an early meal in your quarters, okay? I know how you tributes are the first day. You're in no mood for strategy, so, we'll let you turn in early, just this once. And don't you worry, me and Mab will scope out the competition for you!"

Now that doesn't sit right with me. If I want to win, I need to start preparing. I open my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a gross, jaw cracking yawn.

Well then. Maybe an early bedtime isn't so terrible an idea.

He grins broadly at Miss Torelli and me before ushering us down the hall and into our respective rooms.

I barely glance over the garish green and purple décor before diving headfirst into the plushest bed in the universe. I bite back a moan, rubbing my cheek against sheets that feel like warm dry water. Say what you will about the Capitol's sense of style, they at least know how to make a heavenly bed.

I am asleep before the food even gets there.

**AN: So, this is about how introductory chapters will go. Sorry for the length, but I feel like it's necessary for me to get a handle on the characters. Feel free to skip these if you want. **


	3. District 1

WARNING: Language and some sex stuff in this first section. Lux ain't give a damn.

**Luxor Prince**

The bed rocks with the motion of my hips, mussed sheets brushing gently against the floor with a soft rustle barely audible over the insistent thunk of wood against plaster, accompanied by the sweet sonata of my partner's quiet moans and the wet noises of our fucking.

Lilith claws at my back with one hand, the other moving to stifle her wanton noises, leaving her neck unguarded.

Her jugular pulses invitingly.

(The muscles of the jaw are the strongest in the human body.)

I lower my head and bite at her shoulder, gently, ever so gently, and immediately pull back to sooth the faint marks with my tongue. This act earns me a throaty moan and a rush of praise, as it always does.

I am not thinking of how easily I could rip her tear her crush her throat.

(It only takes eleven pounds of pressure to crush a windpipe. Thirty three, if you want to snap the neck.)

Instead I am thinking of how the thin, grey light of dawn is shining through the window, indicating that it will soon be time for one last training session.

(The light of dawn makes everything looked washed out and unreal. Fragile in ways that clearer light obscures.)

I redouble my efforts, easily shifting my weight onto one hand as I slide my other down her hard, muscular body, seeking the softness of her cunt.

She shudders and practically growls at me to move faster harder more more. I comply.

Sex is an excellent means of releasing tension before a taxing undertaking. The effort put in is minimal. Walking up a couple flights of stairs burns about as many calories. The endorphins released block pain transmitters and increase the production of testosterone in the male body. Increased testosterone leads to increased muscle mass, improved mood, and elevated levels of aggression.

It is also a very pleasant way to spend time that would otherwise be idle, and an excellent alternative to being alone in the dark with no one besides ones thoughts to keep one company.

A warm, solid body drapes itself over my back, and hands smaller and darker than mine trail down to where Lilith and I are joined, and I am suddenly at a disadvantage. My breath hitches and my body stiffens, the instinct to fight sabotaged by my need to get off.

(Hold is weak, an elbow to the ribs should break it. Roll off the bed, to the left, grab a weight off the rack by the door, bring it down, _hard.)_

(It takes 398 psi to fracture a human skull)

"Hmm, y'guys started wifout me?" Onyx says, his voice a bleary rumble of noise like muffled thunder. He yawns widely, then places a kiss between my shoulder blades. "S'much fer bein' my bes friens."

My body loosens and falls back into its rhythm, much to Lilith's delight. "Sno-o-o-ze, and you, ah, l-lose, yes there, fuck, _Lux_." She says, doing an admirable job of keeping her composure under the circumstances.

Oynx lets out a short bark of laughter and leans awkwardly over my shoulder to kiss first her, then me. His hands trail over my chest and stomach, and his hips rut lazily against my ass. "Well, I s'pose it doesn't matter. I mean, s' hours b'for tha Reapin's an whatnaut. W'cn stay here fr'a while yet" He slurs.

My alarm picks that moment to shriek a warning of imminent tardiness. Onyx and Lilith groan in unison, both loosening their holds on me, prepared for swift abandonment.

My mind is hazy with sex and something else, something warm and tight in my chest, and I can't bear the thought of leaving just yet.

With one smooth motion I grab the clock and fling it at the wall, silencing it's cries of responsibility and duty.

Onyx whoops sleepily and wraps his arms around my waist, while Lilith takes advantage of my imbalanced position to shift her hips on top of mine and thrust hard.

My head fills with pleasant static and my chest with warmth.

Yeah, fuck the Trainers. Nothing's worth leaving this.

**Valerie Hall**

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4...

I watch my feet pound against the rough grey belt of the treadmill, mind blank and muscles buzzing with the joy of a good workout.

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4...

I love running, more than anything. The world just seems to make so much sense when it's just me and the track. After all, when you run and run and run as much as I do, there's nothing that can get enough of a grip on you to hurt.

1-2-3-4...

The world is quiet and narrow, comprised only of my deep, even breathing; the sound of the treadmill; and the grey slice of machine and wall that fills my vision.

Well. That and the rather obnoxious sounds of an argument taking place somewhere behind me.

"Come on, Coach! Why does _he _get to volunteer? I mean, there wasn't even a contest of a fight or nuthin'! It's not even fair!"

I scowl at the wall. God, how rude can you get? I mean, come on. Is it too much to ask for a little quiet time before the Reapings?

"He's never even trained with us! How can we know that he's even all that good?"

"Well, I would hope that you'd trust yer damn _teachers _to know how to pick the best bloody fighter!"

"I-I know, I do, it's just that... you've never stepped in before! The Games is kid stuff, not adult stuff, so it only makes sense that we decide for ourselves!"

Oh god, _this _again_. _

Procedure for Volunteering is rather... informal, to put it delicately. I've heard that D2 has some sort of test to determine who gets to go, but us? We're too new to this. We haven't got all the kinks worked out. All we have is a few competing "traditions", none of which are older that three years.

After all, volunteering has only recently become a thing that actually happens in reality, instead of a possibility as farfetched as building a ladder to the moon.

Our Reapings currently a great big clusterfuck, pardon the vulgarity, full of made up rules that no one follows and tactics that can't strictly be called cheating, but are most definitely unsportsmanlike. So it's something of a relief when someone with the actual authority to back it up steps in and puts things in some kind of order, even if they did ignore the girls this time.

I roll my eyes and try to recapture my jogging buzz, but it's gone. The whiney jerk back there took it out back and shot it in the head like it was a rabid dog, and now everyone in the theater is crying. What a prick.

And he just keeps going on and on about his financial situation and how he _needs _to be this year's tribute and blah blah blah. Thankfully, the trainer isn't having any of that and politely tells him to buzz off. It's things like this that almost make me want to remember the names of the people who have been teaching me how to be awesome since I turned twelve. Almost.

"And you too, missy! It's nearly time for the Reaping, and the last thing I need is Peacekeepers up my ass about tardiness!" The trainers growls right in my ear, his ugly mug suddenly right next to my face.

My steps falter and catch and my feet shoot out from under me. My face collides with the treadmill's frame, nose breaking with a wet crunch. Blood spurts from my face like a faucet as the belt tosses me back into a rack of free weights. I hit them with about as much grace as a sack of flailing kittens, and the gym resonates with the mingled sounds of metal crashing and one dumb asshole yelping in pain.

I extract myself from the wreckage, gathering the shredded remains of my dignity as I go, and set about cataloguing my injuries. My nose is definitely broken and still gushing blood all over my shirt, but everything other than that seems to be in working order. Just a bit sore, and I can probably chalk that up to my workout, which ran much, much longer than I intended, apparently.

With that in mind, I force myself to turn calmly towards the trainer, who had just born witness to me being the magnificent winner that I am, and ask, "What time is it?"

"A-are... you okay, kid? We got a first aid kit in the back if you need..."

I repeat my question, hiding shaking hands behind my back.

"8:20. Uh... you should probably... get going. Reaping and all... You sure you're okay, kid? That nose looks... well, yikes."

I contort my face into something I hope resembles a carefree grin and mumble something about being fine and dandy, yessir, no need to make us both late, ahaha, as I edge towards the door.

I give a stiff salute and race out the door, dodging the last few stragglers making their way to the Reaping _which starts in ten fucking minutes, augh._

My nose is _still _leaking blood all over my sweat-stained tank top and gym shorts and my hair is tied up in a messy bun and sweaty locks of it are sticking to my face and trailing through my bloody nose and I look like a damned disaster zone and I can never show my face in that particular gym again and holy shit I am such a fucking moron.

There's no time to head back home and clean up, so I'll be forced to sit through the whole ceremony broadcasting my shame like a neon sign above my head that reads "DORK" in blazing red letters, or risk being reprimanded by the Peacekeepers and ending up with much worse than a broken nose.

My wounded pride hurts more than my face.

**Luxor Prince**

Onyx and Lilith kept me preoccupied for far longer than I had intended, leaving me with little time to bathe and change before the Reaping.

I arrive at the sign just as the Mayor's speech is starting. The officer on duty grimaces at me. I ignore him and proceed to elbow my way into the haphazard mass of males aged 12-18, heading for the front of the crowd.

I dodge and cajole and bully my way through the crowd, ignoring the pointed glares of would-be volunteers and the looks of mingled thankfulness and unease from the would-be Reaped.

Despite what they might think, I'm not doing this for them or to spite them or whatever they think.

I'm doing this because I was born to.

I never knew my parents. Born the year of our District's very first Victory, I was raised by a group of skilled trainers as something of an experiment.

Our first Victor, Rarity Lanadae, was a fluke of a win. A gem cuter by trade and a coward by nature, she did not deserve to live over her more talented competition, but survived nonetheless due to some stroke of luck.

Her Victory brought no honor on our District.

Something she herself seemed to realize, as she devoted her undeserved wealth to preparing the youth of D1 for "whatever challenges life might throw at them" by opening a series of free Training Centers throughout the district, so that those who came after her might have a chance at a more honest win.

Or at least that is how my teachers put it.

In truth, I don't believe she cared so much about winning as she cared about survival. I met her only once, but even a few short minutes in her presence was enough to register her obvious distaste for the so called "Careers" who hoped to make their livings off the Games. Her distaste for everything I stand for.

I was born and raised to be a Victor. To bring honor and glory upon District 1, even at the expense of twenty three young lives.

I was bred to win.

And the ideas of a sentimental old woman are nothing in the face of that one inexorable truth.

I find myself a good position at the front of the crowd, just close enough to the edge to make for a short trip to the stage, but not so far from the center that the Escort has any chance of missing me.

Our escort is short and spry with an exaggerated agedness to her. She appears to be in her seventies or eighties, but the way she moves betrays her youth. Or perhaps Capitol medical technology is simply that good. Either way, she has a certain briskness to her that I have to admire.

She cuts right to the chase, selecting a name from the female's bowl with a minimum of fanfare.

"Glory Joryia."

Not a name I recognize. So, untrained. The females do not have a candidate lined up, so it is likely that I will be going in with a deadweight partner. Not so bad. Less competition.

There is a long pause before someone lets out a strangled yelp. The Escort stands stone-faced and asks for volunteers with practiced indifference.

"I volunteer..?" Someone yells, then repeats herself, firmer. "I volunteer!"

The voice is vaguely familiar. I cannot see the female crowd from where I am standing, so I fix my eyes on the stage and wait.

The girl who appears is tall, about 5'11", and lean. A build suited more for speed than power. Her legs are long, and her center of balance is high, so she should be fairly easy to trip up. Her hair is cut to about chin length, just long enough to prove a good handhold. Difficult to get ahold of, but should go down easily once caught, I surmise.

She's dressed in a faded tank top and threadbare shorts, both speckled with blood from a recently broken nose. So recent that her face is only beginning to purple with what appears to be a very nasty bruise. That will likely be well-treated before the Games begins, so it holds no advantage for me.

Her posture is stiff and determined, but her hands quiver slightly. Nerves? Adrenaline? Her face betrays nothing of what she is feeling. Further assessment will be necessary.

She announces her name to be Valerie Hall. A familiar name. A number of my teachers speak highly of her speed and intelligence. Others decry her impulsive nature and arrogance. I have little reason to disagree with either assessment.

The Escort marches towards the male bowl and plucks a slip of paper from it. I am shouting before she has a chance to read the name.

Cameras focus on me and I put on a show for them, leaping up on stage with ease and loping gracefully to center stage. The Escort gestures at me and Hall to shake hands. We comply. Hall's grip is sure, but she refuses to meet my gaze, and up close the tension in her face is unmistakable.

I allow myself a small grin as I turn to face the crowd.

I am a born winner. And Valerie Hall is not.

**Valerie Hall**

I'm the smartest idiot in the world.

Two Peacekeepers are escorting me to the Justice building. Bloody, sweaty, reeking me is going to the gorgeous and opulent Justice Building that probably smells of something lovely like lilacs. Because I volunteered.

I volunteered for the Hunger Games.

It's not like I wasn't planning on volunteering eventually. Next year, in fact. And that's the problem. Next year is supposed to be my year. And now I'm missing out on a year's worth of training just because I embarrassed myself in front of one man whose name I can't even remember.

And what's worse is I have to face my family.

There's no way mom and dad won't drop by to yell at me for not telling them that I planed to volunteer. And I'll have to pretend that I planed it, otherwise they'll yell at me for not thinking things through.

And if they're both there at the same time, giving each other those side glances like they just can't stand each others guts...

Ugh.

No thanks.

I don't need that kind of stress on a day like this.

My escorts point me towards a small, tastefully decorated room, done up in muted shades of grey. Everything looks soft and ephemeral, like what my childhood self imagined standing in a cloud would feel like. It should put me at ease, but the idea of spending more time than is necessary around my family sets me on edge.

It's not that they aren't lovely people, far from it; my mother is one of the smartest people I know, and my father is the sweetest and most gentle. It's just that I can't stand the ruse their marriage has become.

I realized when I was twelve, right after my Grandmother died. They both doted on my brother and me, but were hardly ever together. And when they were, the tension was palpable to a devastated and oversensitive young me. They never fought, at least not in front of us kids, but they weren't a unit anymore. And that scared me.

I had just lost my favorite person, and then my parent's relationship all of the sudden seemed shaky. It felt like my whole world was falling apart.

And suddenly, everything and everyone seemed suspect. The very idea of long term love and commitment seemed like a farce. Because after all, mom and dad had grown tired of each other, right? What's to stop them from growing tired of me?

What's to stop everyone I care about from leaving me?

I grew out of that particular fear, and into a more rational one. See, it's clear to both me and my brother that our parents no longer love each other and would be happier apart. That we as a family unit would be better off if the nonstop tension between them would just. Stop. But they insist on keeping up their paper thin façade of affection, for our sakes.

They're trapped in a loveless relationship because they love us too much to hurt us, and are too busy pretending to be happy to realize how much they are hurting us.

I pace nervously for a few seconds, then make up my mind.

"H-hey?" I call through the door, hand hovering just above the knob. "Uh, can I not have, um. Visitors? I mean, c-could you just not let anyone in or something? Please?"

There's no answer. I finger the door knob for a bit before giving up and standing awkwardly in the center of the room, trying my best to avoid dripping blood on the plush carpet.

Shit, I am pathetic.

But, I think to myself with a certain vindictive pleasure, a pathetic loser with mad knife skills and the ability to run further and faster than anyone else in the district.

I'll show them.

This loser trying and failing to keep the blood of her accidentally broken nose off the luxurious carpet of the room she is hiding from her family in is going to win the 31st Annual Hunger Games. Just you wait and see.

**AN: It's really weird that a district that specializes in luxury goods became famous for producing winning tributes. I always thought that D2, D4, D10, and D7 dominated the first couple Games, but D1 started up the whole Career thing and the latter two were left in the dust. **

**Anyway, sorry for the wait for all two of you that care, but.**


	4. District 2

**Bruten Burke**

I wake at dawn, same as always.

Establishing a routine is important when your life revolves around your eighteenth year. Repetition makes the days blend together enough that you can almost trick yourself into thinking that the years go by quickly.

Almost.

But now, now is the time when I get to progress. There's a goal on the horizon more weighty then "run there faster than last time" or "hit that dummy slightly harder than you've ever hit before".

Other kids my age have been working for years, learning the trade of the town, establishing their places in the community. My best friends just got married and now live in their own tiny apartment on the other side of town. And then there's me, the guy who spends his days trying to moderately improve skills he's had mastered for years.

It's hard not to feel stuck watching everyone grow up around you while you're waiting for the one event that will define your entire existence.

My hands shake slightly, whether from nerves or anticipation I do not know. I'm facing the end, one way or another.

Breakfast is longer than usual, as I allow myself the time to savor my meal. Yes, there's nothing quite like the wooden taste of baked tuna and dry toast at the ass crack of dawn. Taste assures that the schedule slip is slight, and I continue on to my morning workout.

Some might feel themselves justified in keeping a light workload on a day like today, but I am nothing if not a creature of habit. And besides, bucking the routine I've kept for about as long as I can remember on the absolute last day I will be stuck in it feels almost profane. Like shredding your old baby blanket. Sure you've outgrown it, and maybe it's a bit old and smelly, but it's kept you comfort through many a night, and it deserves a little respect for that.

I shake my head and grimace a bit, ever thankful that telepaths are restricted to the realm of fiction and thus cannot bear witness to my, infrequent of course, slips into sentimentality, and make my way downstairs.

My father is a touch controlling, I'll be the first to admit, and to him the idea of leaving his sons' training to any old random stranger would seem ludicrous, regardless of how much time and money it'd save or the fact that he's a foreman who's never thrown a punch in his entire life much less swung a sword. Dad's not one to sweat the small stuff. So, due to an unexplained stockpile of cash and an ego larger than all of Panem, we posses a state of the art gymnasium below our modest two bedroom one bath house.

The minutes pass like hours as I work myself just hard enough to maintain what I've already got.

Not because it's Reaping day, but because it is Tuesday.

I bite my lip and groan. I can be such a downer in the mornings. There's something about how the harsh fluorescent lights reflects against bare concrete walls, combined with the earthy chill of being underground that makes me feel like the only person in a very small, stagnant world. It sounds stupid, but.

The workout ends after an aching eternity of rep after rep after rep, sweat pooling like cold grease on my skin, and I dash upstairs to check the clock in the kitchen. 7:30. Reapings don't start for another hour thirty minutes.

I ruffle my hair and grimace to myself, debating whether or not a quick jog is in order. I grab a glace of orange juice, the thin, watery piss that dad insists on buying because he 'only has so much cash to burn on your bullshit', and sneak a glance out the tiny window over the grey, utilitarian sink.

The morning fog hasn't had a chance to burn away. The whole world looks like the gunmetal grey of our tiny, sparsely decorated house has infected it, leaching alk the color and life from the District. Not, I think somewhat bitterly to myself, that it had much of that to begin with.

"No, screw that." I think aloud to myself. I scowl to myself and choke down bile. I grip the edge of the sink tight enough to sting and force myself to laugh.

"I'm no runner; I'm a warrior." I crow, striking a pose and pursing my lips like a pin up girl. It's not even a joke, really, and a far cry from my usual wit, if I do say so myself, but sometimes you just need a bit of silliness in your life to make it seem a bit less...

It's all right. There's only a little while left.

There has to be something a healthy, reasonably attractive eighteen year old _warrior_ can do to pass an hour or two.

I glance at the clock once more.

7:31.

Dad is asleep, mom is working, my brother is... gone, Magnus and Slater are probably busy, and despite devilish good looks I've somehow managed to keep myself unattached, so.

...

Wanking it is then.

**Demonica Forest**

I stalk though the numbered and gridded streets of Central District, peering through thin wisps of grey morning fog and shivering at the damp chill against my exposed back and arms. Maybe my little black dress wasn't the most sensible of choices, but it will hopefully make a good first impression on the Capitoltes, who are rumored to be even more sex-obsessed than even the horniest of District teenagers.

A piercing wolf whistle sounds behind me, cutting through the damp quiet of morning.

_Speaking of horndogs..._

I roll my eyes with disgust, even as I force myself to smirk flirtatiously in the direction of the all too familiar hoots and hollers of the usual pack of dogs in boy-skin suits that populate our oh so lovely District.

Someone who obviously believes he should know me elbows his way in front of a crowd of around seven boys of Reaping age and makes a show of strutting and posturing like a barnyard cock in front of the henhouse. He winks and trails his gaze over my body with all the subtlety and grace of a landslide.

"Hey, girl. Why don't you hang with us for a while? Plenty of time yet before the Reaping, you know. Lots of things we could do, heh." He says, punctuated with an awkward jerk of his hips, and a flex of biceps like overstuffed sausages.

I shudder in revulsion. Anger curdles in my stomach and I very nearly can't stop my hands from balling into fists.

"Sorry boys," I say with an exaggeratedly coquettish pout. "no time for babysitting. I've got things to do, tributes to slay, you know. Girl stuff."

With that I turn and strut away, making sure to sway my hips in that awkward, unnatural way that boys seem so fond of, taking vindictive pleasure in their impotent frustration.

I am told that I am pretty. The drooling of mindless louts has convinced me that this is true, though God only knows what fool decided that a pert ass and large tits are more desirable than the broad shoulders and calloused palms that most of the district's women sport. Seems to me that anyone who's not suffered a recent blow to the head might be better off looking for a partner who can carry their own weight, but then again asking a boy to be sensible is like asking a mountain to curtsy.

It is a rare woman indeed who can survive a lifetime of hard labor looking soft and waifish, and an even rarer man who does not believe himself entitled to such a prize.

But I am not an object to be earned, no trophy to be locked away and coveted, brought out only to be paraded around for the sake of one boy's already bloated ego.

Not that girls are all that much better. Though few enough of them want to own me, adolescence seems to have hit every one of my peers with the stupid stick regardless of gender, and now all anyone can think of or talk about are backsides and whose they'd like to hump.

I suppose I should be grateful; natural good looks are a potent weapon against the crotch-for-brains masses, and nature gifted me few enough of those. I have no shame in using what I've got to get what I want. No one should.

The square of as bleak and grey as the rest of the District, the enormous monolith of the Justice building overlooking an awkward merging of asphalt streets and concrete meeting ground, set up on a jutting shelf of black marble that serves as a stage, surrounded on all sides by looming stone buildings that give the claustrophobic impression of a prison cell. The eternally grey sky and thin, watery sunlight that trickles through the near constant cloud cover does not help.

The crowd huddles skittishly in the center of the square, looking for all the world like a group of frightened children instead of the hardened quarrymen they are.

I roll my eyes and sniff before strolling towards the sign in table.

After a quick, efficient, twenty minute stint in an ever growing line of bored assholes, I manage to join the crowd of people who were smart enough to get here early so that they could dodge waiting forever to sign in only to wait forever for everyone else to get their shit sorted out.

The Mayor's speech starts after the usual amount of faffing about waiting for Peacekeepers to round up all the strays and get them all signed in and accounted for. It's the same speech every year in essence, but at least our Mayor tries to vary up the word choice. So, after being wished a beatific and auspicious 31st Hunger Games, we are introduced to our brand new Escort, a bubbly little troll who babbles on and on about how very glad he is to be here with us, this most proud and talented of districts, oh yes, we of the Eight whole Victors, blah, blah, fucking blah.

I roll my eyes and god I do that a lot. It strikes me that if the world doesn't stop being such an irritant my eyes just might roll hard enough to pop right out of my head. Possibly at lethal velocity. Maybe even straight into the heads of assholes who just. Can't. Shut. Up.

He finally gets around to the actual Reaping bit of the Reapings, and I am shouting before he has even made a step towards the ball.

No one challenges my claim. I hear that in District 1 prospective tributes duke it out right there on stage for the honor of volunteering, but that's way too interesting for good old D2. Ever since volunteering became an almost legitimate career choice we've held a contest months in advance in order to prevent anything from livening up our Reaping Day.

I stalk towards the stage, mindful of the cameras pointed at me from every direction, and even more mindful of the people watching what they are recording. I hold my head high and arrange my face into the appropriately confidant smirk, the kind of look that says "I could win this even without your help, but don't you want to be a part of this anyway?" Hopefully.

The first thing the little troll does when I get to center stage, however, is irreparably shatter whatever aura of cool I've managed to generate by shoving his microphone right in my face and shouting directly in my ear.

"Oh my, what a lovely young lady and such a great sport, volunteering like that! I can already tell you'll be a just _marvelous _representative of your _marvelous _District! What's your name, gorgeous?"

I grit my teeth and push the mic back a few inches with a motion that might be slightly rougher than called for. "Demonica Forest," I purr. "And I-"

"_Marvelous! _It's so great to meet you, deary! Isn't she just a dear, folks? Let's give her a round of applause, yes? Such a dear!"

_What a twat!_

I grit my teeth so hard they feel like they might crack and god I just want to punch that squarely bastard right in the fucking mouth. Maybe he'd finally stop talking with his jaw wired shut.

My face feels hot, and I am acutely aware of everyone watching me struggling to keep my cool. My stomach churns with mingled shame and rage, but i choke down bile like a good little girl while the Troll skips over to the male bowl.

My male counterpart actually waits for the Asshole to draw a name, like he'd even think of not volunteering, no sir. Daddy's boy like him wouldn't even think about disappointing our Esteemed Head Peacekeeper like that, not after Daddy Dearest managed to win Father of the Year by banishing his eldest to D12, the unwashed butthole of Panem, for the crime of not wanting to risk his life for a jerk on a power trip.

No, there's no way someone like Bruten Burke could be strong enough to go against his father's wishes, for all his 6'2" of solid muscle.

He shakes hands like someone who wants very much to lead people around by the nose. Which is laughable, given his complete and utter lack of motivation beyond "Make Daddy love me."

I smirk to myself and he smiles back with a calculated openness obviously designed to earn my trust. But I'm no blushing D12 hick to fall for the machinations of a meathead with Daddy issues.

I'm a Career, and I plan to win.

**AN: Bah. I feel like I've irreparably fucked up their characters. I just. Sort of. Read the profiles and started writing stream of consciousness style and then came back after writing 3000 words to find that the end result didn't exactly conform to the forms. Sorry about that. Also sorry for the shortness, but.**

**In other news, nobody submits female tributes who are supposed to be good leaders or are dumb or ugly or unfeminine. And nobody submits males who are sensual and manipulative. SO, I guess what I'm saying is, give me ladies who are burly or big nosed and pimply, sociable and leaderly. Give me males that are seductive and flirtatious and don't work well with a group. Give me people with dwarfism and autistic people, people with sensory processing disorders, cripples, religious people, anything that's not just. Prettywhitesmartquickseductivenicebland.**


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